Hidden Water

He laughed, shrugged his shoulders, and crowded his big black sombrero down over his eyes until it gave him a comical air of despair.

“Luck’s gone,” he remarked, reaching parenthetically for a cigarette paper. “See you later.” And, with a last roguish twinkle at Miss Lucy, he slouched off toward the fire.

His luck indeed had gone, but somewhere in that giant carcass which harbored the vindictive hate of an Apache, and the restless energy of a Texano, there still lingered the exuberant joyousness of a boy, the indomitable spirit of the pioneer, resigned to any fate so long as there is a laugh in it. As he drifted into the crowd Lucy’s heart went out to him; he was so big and strong and manly in this, the final eclipse of his waning fortunes.

“Mr. Creede is a noble kind of a man, isn’t he?” she said, turning to where Hardy was still standing. “Won’t you sit down, Rufus, and let’s talk this over for a minute. But before you decide anything, I want you to get a good night’s sleep. You are a free man now, you know, and if there’s any worrying to be done it’s my funeral–isn’t it?”

If he heard her at all Hardy made no response to the jest. He stood before her, swaying dizzily as he groped about for his hat, which had fallen from his hand. Then at last a faint smile broke through the drawn lines in his face.

“That’s right,” he said, sinking down at her side, and as he settled back against the tree his eyes closed instantly, like a child whose bedtime has come. “I’m–I’m so dead tired I can’t talk straight, Lucy–to say nothing of think. But–I’ll take care of you. We aren’t sheeped out yet. Only–only I can’t–I forget what I’m going to say.” His head fell forward as he spoke, his hands hung heavy, and he slipped slowly to the ground, fast asleep.

After two days and nights of turmoil and passion his troubles were ended, suddenly; and as she raised him up Lucy Ware bent down quickly under cover of the dusk and kissed his rumpled hair.

CHAPTER XVI

THE DEPARTURE

The gentle hand of sleep, which held Hardy in a grip that was akin to death, blotting out the past and dispelling all remembrance of his sorrows, failed utterly to abate the fighting spirit of Jefferson Creede or sap the Spartan grimness of his purpose. Worn by the destroying anger of the previous day, thwarted and apparently defeated, he rose up at the first glow of dawn and set about his preparations with an unemotional directness which augured ill for Jasper Swope. Before the sun was an hour high he had the town herd on the trail for Bender, entrusted to the care of Bill Lightfoot and several others of whom he wanted to be rid. The camp was dismantled, the packs were loaded upon the spare horses, and the outfit was ready to start for Carrizo Creek before breakfast was more than finished in the ranch house. After a final survey to make sure that nothing had been overlooked in the scuffle, the rodéo boss waved his hand to the leaders; then, as the train strung out up the cañon, he rode over to the house to say good-bye. The last farewell is a formality often dispensed with in the Far West; but in this case the boss had business to attend to, and–well, he had something to say to Kitty Bonnair, too.

Very quietly, in order not to awaken his partner–whom he had picked up like a tired baby and stored away in the darkened bunk-room the evening before–Creede opened the door of the living-room, greeted his lady-love with a cheerful grin, and beckoned Miss Lucy outside by a backward jerk of the head.

“Sorry to disturb you, Miss Ware,” he said, “but we’re movin’ camp this mornin’ and before I go I want to tell you about them cattle I’m just sendin’ to town. If I didn’t have other business on hand I’d go down with you gladly and sell ’em for you, but when you git to Bender you go to Chris Johansen, the cattle buyer, and give him this list. You won’t savvy what it is but Chris will, and you tell him that if he don’t give you the best market price for them cows he’ll have to–lick–me! This is a dry year and feeders ain’t much nohow, but I don’t want to see no friend of mine robbed. Well, so-long, Miss Ware. Hope you have a good trip.”

He gripped her hand awkwardly, picked up his bridle lash, and thrust one boot thoughtfully into the stirrup. Then, as if suddenly cognizant of a neglected duty, he snapped his foot out and threw the lash back on the ground.

“I’ll say good-bye to the judge,” he drawled, “so’s to show they ain’t no hard feelin’. Your old man don’t exactly fit in these parts,” he observed apologetically, “but he means well, I reckon. You can tell ’im some time that I was kind of excited when I quit.”

His farewell was a sober and dignified affair, after the courtly school of the South–no allusions to the past, no references to the future, merely a gentlemanly expression of regret that his guest’s visit should have been so suddenly terminated. But when he turned to Miss Kitty his masterful eyes began to glow and waver and he shifted his feet uneasily.

“Kin I speak with you a minute outside?” he said at last; and Kitty, still eager to read the heart of Man, the Unfinished, followed after him, laughing as he stooped to pass his high hat through the door.

“Come on out by the corral,” he urged, confidently leading the way. When they were concealed by the corner of the fence he stopped and dropped his bridle rein.

“Well, we’ve had a pretty good time together down here, hain’t we?” he observed, twisting the fringe of his shaps and smiling at her from beneath his forelock. “I ain’t got but a minute–and there’s some rough work ahead, I reckon–but I jest wanted to–well, I wanted to give you this.” He dove down into his overalls’ pocket and brought up a nugget, worn smooth by long milling around between his spare change and his jackknife.

“That’s a chunk of gold I found over by Red Butte one time,” he said, handing it over. “Thought you might want to keep it for me, you know. But say–” He crowded his hands into his pockets and canted his head to one side, ogling her roguishly.

Kitty had never observed just such conduct before, and she was curious.

“Why–what?” she inquired, tossing back her hair tantalizingly.

“Don’t I git nothin’ to remember you by, little girl?” he demanded, his voice vibrant with passion. “We’ve been pretty good friends, you know. In fact–well, say, don’t I git jest one kiss?”

He drew her gently into his arms as he spoke, waited a fraction of a second for her to resist, and then kissed her, suddenly and with masterful violence.

“One more,” he pleaded insistently. “No? All right then,” he said, swinging gracefully up on his horse as she pushed him away. “I’ll always remember that one, anyhow!”

He leaned forward and Bat Wings shot away up the cañon like a charger that sniffs the combat, thundering out across the parada grounds, swinging beneath the giant mesquite, and plunging down the bank that led to the creek. And all the time his rider sat with one hand on the cantle, his white teeth flashing back a wistful smile.

Taken by surprise Kitty Bonnair stood staring blankly after him, rubbing her cheek which burned hot where he had kissed her. She would always remember that kiss too, and all too late she remembered to become indignant. But, no one being about, she laughed low to herself and hurried back to the house, her eyes downcast and pensive. She had known many men and lovers in her time, but never a one like Jeff Creede.

There was a sound of hasty packing in the Dos S ranch house that morning, and the wagon drove noisily up to the door. Rafael carried out the steamer trunks and luggage, the snake-skins, the smoky opals, the Indian baskets, the braided quirts, and all the scattered plunder that the cowboys had given Kitty and that she could not bear to leave behind. He saddled up their horses, clattering recklessly into the bunk-house where Hardy was sleeping in order to get his blankets, and still, unmindful of noise or preparation, or the friends who must say good-bye, he lay sprawled on the rough blankets, dead with sleep.

Rafael kicked off the brake and started on his weary journey around Red Butte to Moreno’s, which would take him the rest of the day; Judge Ware, possessed to get out of the country before he became particeps criminis to some lawless outrage, paced restlessly up and down the ramada, waiting for the girls to get ready; and Kitty and Lucy, glancing guiltily at each other, fidgeted around in their rooms waiting for Rufus to wake up.

“I’m ready,” said Lucy at last, putting the final touches to the room which he had given up to her. “Are you, Kitty?”

Their eyes met in an uneasy stare, each wishing the other would speak.

“Yes,” said Kitty, “but–shall we go without saying good-bye?”

“What in the world are you girls waiting for?” demanded the judge, thrusting his head impatiently in at the door. “I declare, I begin to think there is something in these jokes about Adam waiting for Eve to get her hat on straight. Now please come at once or we won’t get to Moreno’s in time for supper.”

“But, father,” protested Lucy, “Kitty and I do not wish to leave without saying good-bye to Rufus. Would you mind–”

“No, no!” exclaimed Judge Ware irritably, “if he chooses to sleep all day–”

“But, father!” burst out Lucy, almost tearfully, “he was so tired–he fell asleep as soon as he sat down, and I never did get him to consent to be my superintendent! Don’t you see–”

“Well, write him a note then,” directed the judge brusquely, “and leave it on his desk. Now, Lucy dear, really I’m getting so nervous I’m hardly accountable. Please hurry. And, Kitty, please hurry, too!”

Like two souls haled from the world without a word of explanation or confession, Kitty and Lucy both sat down under duress to pen a last appeal to the little man who, despite his stern disregard, somehow held a place in their hearts. Kitty could have wept with vexation at the thought of not seeing him again–and after she had brought her mind to forgive him, too! She wrote blindly, she knew not what, whether it was accusation or entreaty, and sealed the envelope with a bang of her tiny fist–and even then he did not awaken. Lucy wrote carefully, wrestling to turn the implacable one from his purpose and yet feeling that he would have his will. She sealed her note and put it upon his desk hesitatingly; then, as Kitty turned away, she dropped her handkerchief beside it. It was a time-worn strategy, such as only the innocent and guileless think of in their hour of adversity. When she ran back to recover it Lucy drew a dainty book from her bosom–Mrs. Browning’s “Sonnets from the Portuguese”–and placed it across her note as if to save it from the wind, and between two leaves she slipped the forget-me-nots which he had given her at Hidden Water.

As the thud of horses’ hoofs died away silence settled down upon the Dos S ranch house, the sombre silence of the desert, unbroken by the murmur of women’s voices or the echo of merry laughter, and the sleeping man stirred uneasily on his bed. An hour passed, and then from the ramada there came a sound of wailing. Hardy rose up on his bed suddenly, startled. The memory of the past came to him vaguely, like fragments of an eerie dream; then the world came right and he found himself in the bunk-house, alone–and Tommy outside, crying as if for the dead. Leaping up from his blankets Hardy opened the door and called him in–hoarse, black, distorted, yet overflowing with love and affection. Poor little Tommy! He took him in his arms to comfort him, and bedded him down on the pillow. But when he stepped outside he found that his world too was vacant–the house deserted, the corrals empty, the rodéo camp a smouldering fireplace, surrounded by a wilderness of tin cans.

As the slow grief of the forsaken came upon him he turned and went to his room, where the atmosphere of womankind still lingered to suggest the dear hands that were gone, and suddenly his eyes leaped to the letters left upon the table. It was Kitty’s which he opened first, perhaps because it was nearest; but the torrent of inconsequential words confused him by their unreason and he turned to Lucy’s, reading it over thoughtfully.

“Dear Rufus:

“We have waited a long time for you to wake up, and now father says we must go. You were so tired last night that I doubt if you heard a word I said, although I thought I was making a great impression in my new role as a business woman. I asked father to give me the ranch, not because I wanted to own it but to save you from your madness. The cattle are all mine now and I leave them in your care. Whatever you do I will consent to, if you will leave your guns at home. Is that too much for a friend to ask? I know that Mr. Creede is your friend too, and I admire your devotion to his cause, but I think you can do just as much for him and more by not risking your life in a battle against the sheep. They are so many, Rufus, and they have their rights, too. Father is confident that the Forest Reserve will be declared next Winter and then the sheep will be debarred forever. Can’t you give over the fight for my sake? And I will pay you any price–I will do anything you ask; but if you should be killed or kill some other man, I could never be happy again, though I gained the whole world. Dear Rufus, please–but I leave it for you to decide–”

The note ended abruptly, it was not even signed, and Hardy could imagine the agitation in which it was written. Dear little Lucy, always thinking of others, always considerate, always honest and reasonable. If only Kitty–But no–in her own right as Queen of Love and of his heart, she was above all criticism and blame. It was a madness, deeper than his anger against the sheep, mightier than his fiercest resentment–he could not help it; he loved her. Changeable, capricious, untamed, she held him by her faults where virtues would hardly have sufficed in another. He had tried, and failed; so long as she was in the world he must love her. But what a life! He cast the letter from him and his heart turned to Jeff and the big fight, the battle that they had planned to wage together. In the rush and struggle of that combat he could forget the pangs which tortured him; he could have his revenge on life, which had treated him so shabbily! And yet–and yet–could he desert a friend like Lucy–Lucy who would give her life to make him happier, who had always by every act tried to make him forget his sorrows?

For a long time he sat with his head bowed, thinking. Then he rose up and took down his long-barrelled Colt’s, fingered it lovingly, and thrust it, scabbard and all, into the depths of his war bag.

As he rode down the hill into the camp that afternoon Creede came out to meet him, and when his eyes fell upon the empty belt, he smiled knowingly.

“Well, you woke up, did you?” he inquired, laying one hand carelessly on the bulge in Hardy’s right shap, where modest cowboys sometimes secrete their guns. “Um-huh!” he grunted, slapping the left shap to make sure. “I suspected as much. Well, I congratulate you, supe–if my girl had asked me I reckon I’d’ve give up my gun too. But she gimme a kiss, anyway,” he added, tossing his head triumphantly.

“Who did?” demanded Hardy, coming suddenly out of his dream.

“Why, Kitty, sure,” returned Creede artlessly; and then, noting the look of incredulity on his partner’s face, he slapped him on the leg and laughed consumedly.

“Oh, you’re not the only pebble on the beach,” he cried. “Ump-um–there are others! Say, it’s hell to be in love, ain’t it?”

He looked up at Hardy, the laughter still in his cheeks, but for once there was no answering smile. The large gray eyes were far away and distant, fixed vacantly upon the dust cloud where the sheep gathered in the east. Then, as if dismissing some haunting vision from his mind, the little man shook himself and drew away.

“That’s right,” he said solemnly, “it is.”